FIC: Harbour
Nov. 7th, 2011 11:00 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
zaubraSo apparently I forgot to post this on here? Ah well, have it now.
Fandoms: UK Politics
Title: Harbour
Ship(s): Alastair Campbell/Nick Clegg
Word Count: 538
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Alastair Campbell isn’t known for leaving well enough alone. Written for a prompt at the meme that asked for "Clegbell, first time with Nick toping." When I found out that "toping" was a real word, and what it meant, this fic wouldn't go away until I wrote it.
WARNING: Alcoholism, depression.
Disclaimer: This is a creative work of fiction, composed of fictional characters inspired by the public personas of living people. No injury or disrespect is intended to the persons named. If you've found this by googling yourself or someone you know, stop playing on the Internet and go run the country.
Harbour
Tope (toped, toping) intransitive verb: to drink liquor to excess.
Perhaps he should have left well enough alone. Perhaps he should have turned a blind eye, as everyone else at the party was doing. Perhaps he should have focused on the scintillating conversation of the aspiring spin doctor in front of him, a nervous youngster with a prematurely receding hairline.
But Alastair Campbell isn’t known for leaving well enough alone.
So perhaps it shouldn’t have surprised him, when he found himself politely murmuring his excuses to the youngster (who looks almost relieved), when he found himself pushing through the crowd, when he found himself taking Nick Clegg by the elbow and drawing him firmly into a side room.
Now, behind a shut door, Clegg blinks slowly up at him, the glass in his hand tilting alarmingly.
Alastair reaches out and takes it away from him, placing it on top of a nearby bookcase. Their hosts can deal with it later. “This has to stop.”
“What?” Clegg says, blinking some more.
“You’re drunk,” Alastair says, bluntly.
Clegg looks away. “Nunna your business.”
“No, it isn’t,” Alastair says. “But the last three times I’ve seen you, you’ve been drunk, and not mildly so.”
“Fuck off,” Clegg says, and tries to shove Alastair away from the door.
His condition makes him clumsy, and Alastair easily grabs his arms. “Clegg! Be still and listen.”
Clegg’s eyes find his face, struggling to focus.
Alastair gives him a little shake. “I’ve been here before. I’ve walked down this road, and believe me, it doesn’t end fucking prettily.”
Clegg’s eyes are rebellious, the lines of his face set in an obstinate scowl. “Lemme through.”
Alastair doesn’t let go of his arms. “Think about it, Clegg. When you’ve sobered up, think about it, for fuck’s sake.”
“Let go,” Clegg says, furiously, then snaps his face up toward Alastair’s, a speculative look in his eyes.
Alastair has only a moment’s warning before Clegg is surging up and kissing him, hard and sloppy, the taste of alcohol breaking like a bad memory over Alastair’s tongue.
If Clegg’s move was calculated to cause Alastair to recoil and release him, it backfires. Alastair lets go of Clegg’s arms, to be sure, but uses one hand to cup the back of Clegg’s neck and slides the other around his back, holding him in place.
He kisses back as good as he gets. There is someone here, Clegg; there is someone who has noticed; there is someone who you cannot push away; there is someone who will not let you destroy yourself without a fucking word.
Clegg breaks after a minute, drops his head to Alastair’s shoulder, begins to shake.
Alastair holds him, like a safe haven, like a harbour, unyielding and firm.
He doesn’t know what has driven Clegg to drink. Perhaps it is his general ineptitude. Perhaps it is his marriage. Perhaps it is the shards of broken dreams.
But depression is a black dog that must not be endured alone, even if the only alternative to solitude is the doubtful company of a former Labour spin doctor who opposes nearly everything you stand for, a former Labour spin doctor with devils of his own.
“Think about it,” he breathes in Clegg’s ear, holding him against the storm. “I’m here.”
~//~
Fandoms: UK Politics
Title: Harbour
Ship(s): Alastair Campbell/Nick Clegg
Word Count: 538
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Alastair Campbell isn’t known for leaving well enough alone. Written for a prompt at the meme that asked for "Clegbell, first time with Nick toping." When I found out that "toping" was a real word, and what it meant, this fic wouldn't go away until I wrote it.
WARNING: Alcoholism, depression.
Disclaimer: This is a creative work of fiction, composed of fictional characters inspired by the public personas of living people. No injury or disrespect is intended to the persons named. If you've found this by googling yourself or someone you know, stop playing on the Internet and go run the country.
Harbour
Tope (toped, toping) intransitive verb: to drink liquor to excess.
Perhaps he should have left well enough alone. Perhaps he should have turned a blind eye, as everyone else at the party was doing. Perhaps he should have focused on the scintillating conversation of the aspiring spin doctor in front of him, a nervous youngster with a prematurely receding hairline.
But Alastair Campbell isn’t known for leaving well enough alone.
So perhaps it shouldn’t have surprised him, when he found himself politely murmuring his excuses to the youngster (who looks almost relieved), when he found himself pushing through the crowd, when he found himself taking Nick Clegg by the elbow and drawing him firmly into a side room.
Now, behind a shut door, Clegg blinks slowly up at him, the glass in his hand tilting alarmingly.
Alastair reaches out and takes it away from him, placing it on top of a nearby bookcase. Their hosts can deal with it later. “This has to stop.”
“What?” Clegg says, blinking some more.
“You’re drunk,” Alastair says, bluntly.
Clegg looks away. “Nunna your business.”
“No, it isn’t,” Alastair says. “But the last three times I’ve seen you, you’ve been drunk, and not mildly so.”
“Fuck off,” Clegg says, and tries to shove Alastair away from the door.
His condition makes him clumsy, and Alastair easily grabs his arms. “Clegg! Be still and listen.”
Clegg’s eyes find his face, struggling to focus.
Alastair gives him a little shake. “I’ve been here before. I’ve walked down this road, and believe me, it doesn’t end fucking prettily.”
Clegg’s eyes are rebellious, the lines of his face set in an obstinate scowl. “Lemme through.”
Alastair doesn’t let go of his arms. “Think about it, Clegg. When you’ve sobered up, think about it, for fuck’s sake.”
“Let go,” Clegg says, furiously, then snaps his face up toward Alastair’s, a speculative look in his eyes.
Alastair has only a moment’s warning before Clegg is surging up and kissing him, hard and sloppy, the taste of alcohol breaking like a bad memory over Alastair’s tongue.
If Clegg’s move was calculated to cause Alastair to recoil and release him, it backfires. Alastair lets go of Clegg’s arms, to be sure, but uses one hand to cup the back of Clegg’s neck and slides the other around his back, holding him in place.
He kisses back as good as he gets. There is someone here, Clegg; there is someone who has noticed; there is someone who you cannot push away; there is someone who will not let you destroy yourself without a fucking word.
Clegg breaks after a minute, drops his head to Alastair’s shoulder, begins to shake.
Alastair holds him, like a safe haven, like a harbour, unyielding and firm.
He doesn’t know what has driven Clegg to drink. Perhaps it is his general ineptitude. Perhaps it is his marriage. Perhaps it is the shards of broken dreams.
But depression is a black dog that must not be endured alone, even if the only alternative to solitude is the doubtful company of a former Labour spin doctor who opposes nearly everything you stand for, a former Labour spin doctor with devils of his own.
“Think about it,” he breathes in Clegg’s ear, holding him against the storm. “I’m here.”
~//~
